


The Eye of A Needle

by silklace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 05:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silklace/pseuds/silklace
Summary: The world is burning, and it begins and ends with Dean.(Originally written and posted in 2008.)





	The Eye of A Needle

**Author's Note:**

> This was written and originally posted to LJ back in 2008, around the time when the Wincest fandom was really digging the idea of Sam setting the world on fire to rescue Dean from hell. I'm in the very slow process of trying to consolidate my fic onto the archive, so here we go. It's not always pleasant, but it's certainly...interesting...to compare my writing style now versus nearly ten years ago. 
> 
> Set Post-Season 3.

**Dean**

A light. Soft and warm like licking flames or birthday candles.

There is light and not much else. Stone beneath your knees and black silk across your eyes, muting the light, which may be harsh after all; you never can tell.

You are waiting. You are waiting on your knees, eyes shut beneath the blindfold. Your mouth tastes like blood, and you run your teeth along the ridges of each tooth, waiting.

This is how you fall, you think.

:::

**Ruby**

You’re dying, and you are thanking gods that don’t exist for it.

When you were human, there was a field you would walk to, past the patches of lavender and over the brook that bubbled through the willow trees. In the field there was lengths upon lengths of honey golden grass that sprouted past your waist and tickled the tips of your fingers. You would lie in the fields, hidden and hiding, and you would think, this is what it feels like to be utterly alone.

Now you are dying in a field of bodies. There is blood on your lips, and there is blood in your hair, and a slit across your throat from a knife that was given to you by a priest seven hundred years ago.

You begged for your life, knowing you are a lowly creature anyways and there would be no noble death. “Is this how you repay the only ally you ever had?” you spat, and watched him send up a rain of fire with a flick of his hand.

You heard screams, and he said, “You deserve this,” and you watched the knife fly at you, and you were grateful.

:::

**Jo**

You would’ve liked to have survived this, to have been the last strong woman on the Earth, carrying the Harvelle name along for your mother and your father.

The straps on your wrists cut into your skin, and there is the warm trickle of blood along your fingers, and if you had lived long enough they would have been scars. You would have worn them proudly.

You are in a room with a man and two women who wield knives and whips. Your mother is behind you, strapped similarly to a chair, and you have given up hope that she is not dead.

You no longer know which side you are on, which side you are fighting. There is just death and madness and destruction, and you are drowning in it.

The woman with cropped hair comes forward and teases a knife across your collarbone. “Where is he, lovely?” she croons into your ear, fingers soft on your dirty hair. “Just tell us where he’s being kept, and we’ll let you go.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” Your voice hurts. The man comes forward and backhands you. You know how to take a slap, and you turn your face with the force of it, and there is less pain.

He hovers over you. “Dean Winchester. Tell us how to find him.” He pauses for dramatics. “We know all about you and Dean, and we don’t think the Messiah would be too pleased about your little midnight trysts, would he?” You blink, and you hate yourself for feeling betrayed. “Tell us, and we’ll be kinder to you.”

You were in love with Dean, but Sam got there first. You were in love with Dean, but you were never willing to die for him, and maybe that’s why you are where you are, now. The Winchesters never knew how to love without making it into a contract.

You see the one woman look to the other, say something without speaking. The one who cut you before sidles off behind you. They know you don’t hold any secrets; they know you’re useless.

You wonder if Sam will end the world. You wonder if your killers want Dean as a bargaining piece with Sam. You wonder if they are part of the Save Dean Winchester faction who hopes to rescue the beautiful boy from his mad brother. You wonder if they believe that they will really win, or if they know they are fighting futilely. You hear the soft scuff of boots on stone behind you, and you are not ready to die, but you know that –

:::

**Cassie**

You are wearing your mother’s black velvet dress. It’s too big for you by far, but you cinch the back with a pin and it hugs closer to your waist. The white gloves go past your thin elbows, and there is a bloom of blood at the fingertip of your left ring finger. You realize you must have pricked yourself.

Foolishly, you had thought that the last time you kissed Dean goodbye would be the last time you would have contact with what he fought everyday. Now there is no one left who does not know what a demon or an angry spirit is.

The champagne sparkles in the crystal glass as you pour. It’s gold in the warm light, and you can remember the way Dean drank champagne as if it was beer, unused to what your mother called ‘fine things.’

(You can hear them coming for you.)

The old record player is whirring in the corner of the parlor, Edith Piaf’s voice coming through, roughened and heartbroken. You sing along for a moment, tongue tripping along to the memorized syllables. You have no idea what you’re saying.

The pills are slick as they slide down your throat, champagne swishing after them. You lie down, head on the armrest, glass dangling from your fingers.

You close your eyes.

:::

**Bobby**

You need coffee. Well, what you really need is a strong finger of whiskey, but alcohol’s not allowed on the premises, as ordained by you, so you’ll settle for a cup of black coffee.

You rub your eyes with old fingers, and when you look back up, there’s a mug in front of you. Steam curls along its rim and you look up to see Lisa standing in front of you.

“You looked like you could use some,” she says, wrapping the rain jacket tighter around her chest.

“Well you just about read my mind,” you say, and gulp down a mouthful gratefully.

“Bobby --,”

“What?”

“There’s another message.” She looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Damn it.” You’re on your feet, piling maps and letters into something resembling organization. You stuff them into the oven-cum-safe and spin the lock, signaling to the guards that you’re leaving.

They unlock guns to let you pass through the stone arch to the main entryway. There’s training for the younger ones here, and you weave through the tussling bodies, the synchronized gunmanship. You wonder vaguely how to get some light in here, if you can do it through the ceiling. You’re down so damn deep that you’re not sure if even that’ll work.

You pass through the dining hall, say hello to Maryanne who’s got an eye for you, pat two boys on the shoulder that remind you of Sam and Dean more than you’d like. Lisa leads you until she sees Ben sitting alone with a bowl of soup and then she joins him, arms sliding around his shoulders and kissing his cheek.

Deacon greets you at the conference room. “There’s been contact with Sa—the Messiah.”

You eye him warily. The last messenger had been sent back with her eyes gouged out and a note pinned to her chest, summarily asking Bobby and his forces to ‘back the fuck off.’

Deacon’s mouth is a grim line, but he nods for you to go in. Inside, the messenger – a boy named Jasper who volunteered after his pretty pregnant wife had been killed– is trembling, jaw clenched as if he’d very much like to stop shaking now.

He’s got a thin army blanket over his shoulders, and someone is patching up a wound on his thigh.

You sit across from him, wait for the nurse to finish tending the cut. When she leaves, you look him in the eye. You say, “You’ve done well, boy.”

He makes a sound like a gasp or a sob, and nods, swallows. “The first thing you should know is, he’s working by himself. I thought I’d have to go through guards or armies of fucking minions to get to him, but he just walks around like he’s bulletproof.” That sounds like Sam to you, even when you knew him. Jasper continues, “I found him in the goddamn freezer section of some abandoned Safeway.”

There’s a sudden clamor outside that distracts both of you for a moment, but it’s quickly silenced and not all that uncommon. “Go on,” you say, not unkindly.

“He knew I was there, I think. I mean, he must’ve. He had me pinned to the wall quicker than I could breathe. He said that it would ‘all be for the best if we just left him alone.’ Said that the time for negotiation was past, that nothing was going to stop him. ‘Nothing else matters,’ he said.” Jasper wipes at his sweaty forehead with trembling fingers, and then pulls his hand into a fist to stop the shaking.

You’re silent, waiting. “I told him that this wasn’t who he was. I mentioned John and Mary and Jess, like you said to, but it didn’t do anything. He didn’t seem to care, or if he did, he certainly didn’t show it.”

You get up and grab him a cup of tea from the corner of the room to hide the tremor of fear that goes through you. “And how did you get out?” you ask, setting the cup in front of him.

Jasper’s face goes whiter, pale like old willow leaves. “He said that there was no point. That by tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter if I lived or died.” He heaves a sigh, as if telling it has lifted some weight but only replaced it with a different, more complicated burden.

“Can I see my son, now?”

You pause. “Dr. Coleman has seen to you, right? Then, yeah, go on.” You grasp him by the shoulders one last time. “You’ve given us valuable information, son. Be proud.”

You follow him out of the interrogation room, and you watch as a very small tow headed boy disentangles himself from a group of guards and officers and women restraining him, and runs toward Jasper.

Jasper falls to his knees as he envelops his son in his arms, nuzzling the sweet line of his neck and wiping away the boy’s tears with his thumbs.

Tomorrow morning, before dawn has broke, you will be woken by a frazzled guard and utter chaos, and you will learn that Sam has ripped open hell and in his haste to reach his brother didn’t bother to shut the fiery gates on his way in.

Tomorrow morning, everything will change again.

For now, you will watch this reunion, and have a cup of coffee, and maybe take Maryanne up on that offer to share a bed.

:::

**Sam**

“Dean.”

You watch the sudden alertness crawl across your brother’s form: his fingers twitch in their binds, his eyelids flutter beneath the silk, his throat moves like the ebb and tide of the ocean as he swallows.

“Sammy,” he says. “Thought you mightta forgot about me down here.” He smirks even with the blindfold still across his face.

“Nah,” you say, hovering, hesitating as you try to decide which part of him to touch first. “Your knees hurt?”

“You bet your ass they do.” He chuckles, chin pointed down. “Starting to feel kinda bad for all those ten dollar whores kneeling all night.”

You place a soft hand on his back and help shift his legs out from under him, catching him as he nearly unbalances into your lap. He groans softly as you slip the blindfold off. “Hey there, killer,” he says, when he’s got you in focus. “I hear you’ve been busy up above.”

You snort. “Something like that.”

Dean’s face goes still for a moment, and then he grins at you. “Well, all I’m sayin’ is that if there ain’t no freakin’ pie left, someone’s gonna pay.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Or burgers. Man, I could go for a nice hickory smoked burger.”

You huff. “Dude, you don’t even --. Maybe we should just focus on getting you outta here first.”

“Yeah, I guess we could do that.”

You lift him up, hands around his bony hips. You had almost forgotten what the curve of his lips were like. “I missed you, man.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” He slips an arm around your back. “Me too.”

:::

**Dean**

The trek back to Earth is long or short, you can’t tell, but when the first whisper of morning light touches your brow you fall to your knees.

There is dirt beneath your skin, grass sewn between the seams of your clutching fingers. Sam touches your head with light fingertips and you look up into his face, backlit by an orange, bleeding sky.

You lean into his palm, kiss the roughened skin of his curled fingers. “Sammy.”

He bends down and pulls you up, and you rise in the circle of his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feedback always loved and welcome. <3


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